Clarke finds the jacket—his stupid, ugly, brown jacket—four years after they break up.
It's wedged in her closet, where it hangs innocently between two dresses, taunting her. Narrowing her eyes, she crosses her arms and stares at it, wondering how, of all things, she forgot to give that stupid jacket back.
After standing there for a stubborn half hour, she yanks the jacket off its hanger and brings it to the coat rack by her front door. Despite the fact that she held it far enough away from her face, she still accidentally catches a whiff of his cologne.
The memories that come rushing back are rosy-tinged bastards.
She curses her olfactory senses and her penchant for nostalgia and him, and hangs the jacket unceremoniously by her front door. With a sigh, she heads to her bathroom and sprays perfume until it hangs in a thick cloud around her head.
It's still not enough to mask the memories still stubbornly playing in her mind.
"Just give it to Octavia. She'll give it back to him," Raven suggests, stealing one of her fries and waving it in the air nonchalantly.
Clarke raises an eyebrow. "Octavia's in Nepal, in case you forgot. What's she going to do? FedEx the jacket to him halfway across the world just because I asked her to?" She shakes her head. "That's not going to happen. Plus, I'm pretty sure she's still not talking to him."
"Seriously?"
"She wasn't when we were—" she cuts herself off, sighing. "She wasn't a few years ago," she corrects with a terse smile.
The look Raven gives her is spectacularly unimpressed. "When you and Bellamy were dating you mean?" She rolls her eyes. "Why the hell are you so dramatic about it? Your breakup was nowhere near the levels of uncomfortable that mine and Finn's was, and it had a hell of a lot more closure than mine and Wick's had."
Clarke shudders involuntary. "I know. It's just—you know, Raven. You know how we were."
"Ridiculously in love? Perfect for each other? Soulmates?'
She glares at her. "Raven."
"What?" She shrugs irreverently. "You know I'm right. Look, I know it sucked for you. It sucked for all of us. Have you noticed that we haven't all hung out as a group since you two broke up?" You guys—" Frustrated, she shakes her head. "When you guys broke up, it affected all of us. It changed everything."
"I know," Clarke says, and it sounds like an apology. In some ways, it is. "I just—I wish things had turned out differently."
"We all do," Raven mutters, uncharacteristically soft. She steals another fry and expertly changes the subject to the unfairly attractive CEO of Azgeda Corp that she has to see every single day now that they've hired her for some 'X-files level top secret shit', as Raven so eloquently describes.
Afterwards, Raven grabs Clarke's hand and pulls her around.
"Look, Clarke, I can take the stupid jacket back to Bellamy," she offers, sincere.
"It's been four years." Clarke smiles, squeezing Raven's hand. "I'm an adult. He's an adult. I can handle seeing him."
Clarke can't handle seeing him.
And she's tried, she really has. She's driven down his street more times than she'd like to admit, his jacket riding shotgun, with every intent to stop the car by his ugly, pale yellow mailbox.
She'll slow down, tires grazing the curb, and glance at the house. She'll imagine him stepping out into the golden evening sun, all mussed curls and broad shoulders and wicked smirk and it's too much. Muttering curses under her breath, she'll throw the jacket in the backseat and angrily accelerate to the 25mph speed limit, accidentally blowing through the stop sign at the end of his street, again.
Their breakup hadn't been that bad, it was true. It was just so—unexpectedly final. Clarke doesn't even really remember what started the beginning of their end.
What she does remember is this: her voice, cold and bitter, telling him that he would be better without her; without a girl who could hardly say the words I love you without them feeling like a damning sentence in her throat. He deserved better than a girl who could only ever give him part of an already broken heart.
"I can't do this anymore, Bellamy."
She remembers the look on his face. Vulnerable, stricken with emotion, his brown eyes blinking at her in hurt disbelief.
"That's it, then. Just like that, you've decided we're done."
She remembers how, after her bags were packed, he asked her to stay—gently, desperately, tragically—the way his voice trembled in a way she hadn't ever heard before, the way her heart twitched at the sound.
The doorknob had been cold to her touch. Through blurred vision and with a sob caught in her throat, she croaked a goodbye and left.
A relationship that only lasted five months and ended four years ago shouldn't still be affecting her, but…it wasn't just any relationship. It wasn't just any breakup.
It wasn't just any ex.
It was Bellamy.
It was strange, honestly, how they had somehow managed to avoid each other for four years even while living in the same city. She'd seen glimpses of him at parties and random coffee shops, sure, but they hadn't spoken or even said hello in four years.
The only way Clarke knew anything about him at all anymore was thanks to their mutual friends. They'd mention carefully, casually, what he'd been up to. It was how she knew that he had graduated with his doctorate in the Classics, and had landed his dream job at Ark University.
And she was sure it was how Bellamy had known she had dropped out of med school to reopen the art gallery her father managed before his death.
He hadn't attended the fundraising gala, but his name was included on the list of contributors. She had stumbled over his name during her closing, thank-you speech, and the taste of his name in her mouth after so many years couldn't even be drowned with a generous amount of alcohol, she quickly learned afterwards.
That night had been one of the many, many nights she had stopped and asked herself if she had made a mistake leaving him all those years ago. She'd wonder if he was the reason she still couldn't move on after four damn years. She'd ask herself if he was the reason all of her one-night stands seemed to all have the same dark, curly hair and dimpled chins and warm skin.
Their eyes were always wrong, though, she'd noticed. She'd never been able to find someone with eyes like his, eyes darker than a night sky whose stars had been stolen and draped across his cheeks.
She definitely can't handle seeing him again.
And so the jacket sits smugly in her car, judging her. It's starting to lose its rich, musky smell, leaving only the distinctive smell of cigarette smoke on it. She had long quit smoking and, according to their mutual friends, so had he, but the smell of it on his jacket makes her tongue taste like nicotine and her lips tingle with the memory of smoke-filled kisses on the fire escape of his old apartment. It makes her mind buzz with memories of a time when their biggest problems were college midterms not being able to decide on a matching Halloween costume. Back when the future was still colored with words like we and together and us and ours.
A week later, when Raven asks her if she dropped the jacket off, Clarke shakes her head and tells her to ask her again tomorrow. The pained, frustrated tone of her voice is enough to make even Raven not push the subject.
It's eleven o'clock at night when she finally musters up the courage to give the jacket back to him. She knows this random burst of bravery won't last long, so she spits out her toothpaste, pulls on some pants, and grabs her keys.
The air outside of her house is chilly, a late-Autumn breeze trembling through the trees. She shivers. Almost as an afterthought, she shrugs the jacket on.
Just because it's cold, and I don't want to run back inside and grab a jacket, she justifies to herself, but she knows it's a bold-faced lie. The jacket rests comfortably on her shoulders, and she immediately knows it was a mistake to put it on.
Still, she doesn't take it off.
The drive to his house is quiet, expectant. She doesn't turn on the radio or blast music from her phone. The windows are rolled down, and she feels the cold air rush through her hair and realizes why she loves fall so much.
It was when they met, six years ago on a random Tuesday on campus, walking home after the party they were at got crashed by the cops. They flirted half the way home, before Clarke realized that he was the Political Science T.A. who refused to give her an A on a paper she had spent four days working on.
They argued, argued some more, and argued even more as time passed until they called a 'temporary' truce for Octavia's sake. That 'temporary' truce led to a long-lasting friendship, one that only solidified as the semesters flew by. And one drunken October night, they ended up making out behind Raven's Jeep. She couldn't remember if he had been the first one to say it or her, but one of them had accidentally confessed to being in love with the other, and they'd been together ever since.
Until their breakup, of course.
Clarke pulls her car into his driveway. She places it into park confidently, despite the fact that her fingers are shaking when she pulls the keys out of the ignition. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she steps out of the car.
Her steps against the pavement echo in the still night air. It takes her two minutes to decide whether she should knock or ring the doorbell. In the end, she rings the doorbell, listening to it chime through the house mutedly on the other side of the door.
Rolling on the balls of her feet, she twists her fingers anxiously.
"This is crazy. You're crazy," she mutters to herself, through grit teeth.
When not even ten seconds have passed, she decides that he must be asleep and chickens out. She's halfway to her car when she hears the front door swing open.
She stops in her tracks, refusing to look back at him. She knows that once she does, every feeling, every memory, every suppressed emotion from the past four years will come swinging back at her with an unimpeded vengeance.
"Clarke?"
His voice, confused as it is, sounds like music to her ears. It's deep and hoarse, like he's just woken up, and it reminds her of a lifetime ago, of lazy Sunday mornings waking up curled beside him in a tiny bed, the sun creeping up the walls of his book-littered dorm room.
Her traitorous body begs for her to turn around and look at him. She takes a deep breath, and turns.
It shouldn't surprise her that he's still annoying beautiful. Maybe even more so, than before, which, honestly, isn't fair. His hair is longer, she notices. Messier, too. Her fingers twitch at her sides with the unholy desire to run through the inky curls like they used to, to pull the ends and make him groan.
There's an Ark University t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, and plaid pajama bottoms resting low on his hips. Long fingers slide out of his pocket to push clunky glasses up the bridge of his nose.
Finally, she meets his eyes. The relief that courses through her is practically intoxicating. She could die happy now, knowing that his eyes are still as warm as she remembered, that her memories didn't exaggerate their sun-warmed-earth color. His eyes are just as vulnerable as she remembers, just as expressive, and she hates how much it feels like coming home.
"Bellamy," she says, hoping he doesn't notice the way his name is still precious in her mouth, still fond on her lips, despite everything.
"What…what are you doing here?"
"I—You got new glasses."
Reflexively, he readjusts his glasses, and the action is so damn endearing and familiar she could cry.
His eyebrows furrow. "What?"
"Never mind." She shakes her head, clearing her mind. "I was just—I was cleaning my closet out the other day and I found your jacket."
He looks at her, expectant, and her eyes widen with realization.
"Right," she mutters, shrugging the jacket off of her shoulders, stepping up towards him. Smiling shakily, she holds it out to him. "I figured you might want it back."
"Clarke," he wets his lips, and she forces herself not to notice. "I—It's been four years."
"And eight months," she says automatically. At his unreadable expression, she clears her throat and gives a nervous half-laugh. "I mean—what I meant to say was, I know. I just—I thought you might want it back."
Hesitantly, he takes it from her. Their fingers brush lightly against each other in the process, and Clarke wonders if it's medically possible to literally feel adrenaline coursing through your veins. Maybe if she would have finished medical school, she'd know.
If he notices her flustered state, he doesn't show it, casually turning the jacket over in his hands.
"I figured I just lost this when you moved out of my place," he says. She smiles, strained. The air between them turns awkward, like she expected it would. He clears his throat. "Thanks. For bringing it back."
"No problem." She runs her hands over her now-bare arms, suppressing a shiver that has more to do with their close proximity than the cool autumn air.
He notices, stepping towards her instinctively. She resists the urge to step back. Or, the even more dangerous urge: to step forward. Tentatively, he holds the jacket back out to her.
"It's freezing outside," he says. "You'll get a cold."
"That kind of defeats the point of me bringing it back to you, doesn't it?" she asks, smiling at his instinct-driven impulsiveness. It was half the reason she fell in love with him in the first place; his not-so-secret tendency to nurture and protect his family and friends. Her voice light, teasing, she adds, "I mean, if I take it, we'll just have to repeat this whole awkward experience again tomorrow."
He huffs a laugh. "Right."
They look at each other, smiling like they're sharing some sort of twisted inside joke.
Clarke looks away before she can say something stupid. "I should—"
"How are you?" he asks, surprising her.
She bites back a smile. "I'm…okay. You?"
"I've been better," he admits, and the small smile he gives her makes her stomach flip, even after all this time. "How's—how's the gallery?"
"It's doing amazing," she tells him, proud. "I never…thanked you. For donating."
He shakes his head, casual. "It wasn't a big deal. I've been wanting to go see it, but—" he breaks off, the explanation clearly unnecessary.
She nods at his shirt. "How's Ark U?"
"It's unbelievable. I never imagined I'd actually be teaching there."
"I always knew you would," she confesses, genuine. Before he can reply, she asks, "Is it everything you dreamed it would be?"
His smile falters. Glancing up, he studies her, soft and slow enough to make her heart thrum in her chest.
"Not everything."
She nods, blinking. Her throat grows tight, and she knows that if she stays any longer, she'll either burst into tears or throw herself into his arms, and she's not sure she would survive either. She starts to turn when he takes another step towards her.
"Clarke," he breathes, voice almost reverent in the quiet air. "I—" he looks at her, a million words trapped behind his eyes, begging to be let out. He hesitates, drawing in a breath. "It's good to see you."
She smiles. "It's good to see you too, Bell."
The nickname rolls off her tongue, easily, naturally, perfectly, but in the end it's just a cruel reminder of the reality of who they are now. They're not lovers. They're not even friends, not anymore. She looks at him, apologetic, and says, "I should—I should go."
"Right," he exhales.
Jumping down the steps, she pats her pockets down for her keys. Realization strikes her and she turns back agonizingly slow.
"I, uh, I left my keys in the jacket."
He blinks.
"Oh." Fishing them out of the pocket, he steps down and hands them to her. "Here."
"Thanks," she says, feeling more than ridiculous about the entire situation; her showing up near midnight with a jacket he probably forgot he even owned.
He shifts where he stands, hands clenching at his sides like he wants to reach out and stop her from leaving.
"I'll see you around?" he asks, careful.
She hesitates, her fingers curled around the door handle to her car.
"See you around," she replies, trying not to notice how hopeful they both sound.
On the drive back to her house, she cranks the radio up to full volume, trying to block out every thought of him from her mind. She narrowly avoids the potholes in the road, running a hand through her disheveled hair and wondering whether she should cry, scream, or laugh.
In the end, she just collapses on her couch without bothering to remove her shoes, and settles on sobbing herself to sleep.
She dreams about him, that night. It's a stupidly happy dream, the kind where your traitorous heart paints a picture of perfection that your dream-hazed mind can't realize is too good to be true. She wakes up, heart emptier than ever, the sound of her pain louder than ever in her quiet living room.
She calls in sick, bundles herself up in a shield of blankets, and watches Netflix until the desperate aching quiets.
It doesn't, but when Netflix prompts Are you still watching? she turns off the TV and heads to the kitchen to make her dad's 'be happy' pancakes, the ones with chocolate chips arranged in a more-often-than-not lopsided smile, and pretends that she feels better.
A/N-I'd say that reviews are better than bellamy blake's freckles, but we all know that's a boldfaced lie.
still, reviews are encouraged, welcomed, and appreciated. 3
cry about how much you love bellamy blake with me on tumblr- funfanfin